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This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

you'll drop your bag at the first sight of merun unabashedly into my longing arms,shoving bystanders aside like wheatas your Anemoid spirit —transformed from Eurus into Zephyr by a layoverand all the metaphors that entails —obliviously brushes them asidein the eager anticipation of my embracein all likelihood,my Jedi reflexes will fail at the moment of impactand we'll collide with the Earth as meteorsyour giggles replacing the "timber!" of lumberjacksbystanders will Polaroid the momentadd anecdotes to their dull livesso that in decades hence,when asked by grandchildren what love isthey'll ponder and rememberrelate a moment they saw on a promenadewhen spacetime became an irrelevant hindranceto two strangers who could not be held apart any longercrashing into over-vacuumed carpetleaving an impact crater that echoed joy for days

but maybe you'll be stationary,and I, unable to wait another momentwill hurdle chairs as an Olympian yearning for gold accoladesor streak frantic-mad as a Berliner at Checkpoint Charlieor a Jew at Sobibor, dodging abandoned luggage like minesas though your arms are my only chance at freedom,peripherally blind to the passersbyfeet achieving speeds akin to Superman or the Flashsecurity would reach toward Tazers or radiosthinking I had homicide on my mind,until I stop short of youwrap arms parentally around your small frameas if a refuge father wanted to banish any fear of orphanhoodvault you into the air,bring your lips to minetransform the terminal into a bedchamberunusually populated at this time of nightand swallow your breathto taste all the words you longed to say in personwhispered into the Canadian wind too longfill you with all the unspoken poemskept gestating in my bellyburst them back into you mouthwith my Morse code tonguewhile security,seeing berserker rage transmogrify into unshielded joybefore they could bring guns to bearwould relent as pulses return to humdrum levelswhile at the center of the world,we'd stand still,letting it all spin at epic speedmaking dizzy those around us

but perhaps the moment would be more tamesomething from a yuppie romantic filmI'd sit in the trendy coffeehousesipping cappuccino and reading The New York Timesas if I'd brought the paper from my drivewaycomment to the barista about faraway placesI'd seen on business trips,"I've been to a café down the street from this bombing,so sad, so sad,"and wax philosophical about days long pastyou'd approach, drop your bag along the table,I'd look up, quote a headline,or ask for a crossword clue,you'd reply with an answer that fit the spaces,but metaphorically encapsulate our relationship,like "destined" or "prophetic" or "sui generis"I'd pencil it in, aware of the subtextand that the word wasn't the answer to the clue —the "e" turns "mate" into "mete" —but the answer to usthen ask about your trip home to meas though you'd made it a hundred times beforeyou'd complain about the in-flight filmlaugh about playing pattycake with a 6-year-old at 40,000 feetthen ask where I'd parked the truckwe'd stroll out, arm in armlike 60-year-old lovers who'd always beenwhile the barista's next customers would order mochasand wonder about our youthful loveunaware of our underlying plot

rather, you'd find a quiet barbetween gate and baggage claimand I'd see you in the shadows of mood-rich track lightsmove in like Casanova,order a pinot noir and dirty martinistroll strangerlike to your tableask unassumingly if "is this seat taken?"pitch a half-hearted pickup linenothing too obvious or offensiveoffer the wine or gin,whatever your tasteand make small talkyou'd say you're a college professor,here to speak about the nuances of Joseph Campbellin the mythos of Kerauoc and the Beatsas it relates to modern pop culture and the idealized rebelI'd pretend to comprehend,then explain I was an architectrecently returned from a conference on New Urbanismchaired by spouses Andrés Duany and Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk,with whom I enjoyed a drink the night before in Miami,I'd discuss walkable neighborhoods and pedestrian spaces,you'd say James Dean played the role but missed the intentbut we'd both find common groundin having recently read "Love in the Time of Cholera,"and mutually vowing to never wait as long as Fermina and Florentinowe'll look into each other's eyesand a moment would last too longbefore we'd break awayyou'd say you would have to be going,find a taxi to your hotel,while I'd offer a you a lift,it's on my way, and I know a little bar near it,you'd hesitate, then acquiesce,in hopes of another longing lookI'd fumble for my keysand hope there was a little bar nearbybecause I've never anywhere near there,and my house is on the other side of townbut your eyes are worth the drive

perchance I'd simply stand stoically,sly smile painted on lipsslowstep at a glacial pace,and meet in the middleI'd say this was as I'd foreseenyou'd ask how longI'd smile, look away, and tell you the moment it first cameyou'd ask why lips had shuttered before the telling,I'd say no one believes Cassandrawho saw Troy burn before Agamemnon set sailyou'd ask for all my secretsand this time I'd tellcatch the other shoe before it felland change destinies

knowing your games, however,you'd walk on by, making me a stranger,I'd ask if you were looking for someoneyou'd reply, a boy, who hadn't come,I'd ask his description which would eerily resemble mineyou'd throw up arms in jestunable to believe he'd done it again,left you somewhere strangewhile I'd ask if I could take his placehis loss, my gain

instead, when you come within earshot,I'll leap atop a counteraddress passengers and well-wishersask for forgiveness for what they're about to hearpull a poem from my back pockettoss out dry erase boards to five strangersand slam verses as though this terminalwas the NPS finals' stageand we're in second place,needing a 29.9 to tie, but a 30 to winspout metaphors about a girl I loved,who left me standing naked in my skinon the side of the road as she left too soon,turning in the ether of a mirageas I couldn't stop herchest damp with our shared tearsmixed like blood in a John Donne poemabout a flea and two loversI once read herthe poem would slam itself, I'd be told laterby those who understood the referenceand you, red-faced and embarrassed at my pronouncementswould see the gesture romantic even if foolhardyhoping I'd quit soon, but still love the moment,as something we'd whisper about later under coverssome Sunday morning weeks aheadthe point wasn't the points, but the poetrywhich strangers would quote to their loverspretending it their own

but all these visions concludeI watch too many movies

instead, I'd prefer a reunion our way:across the terminal, in the back our mindsas you leave transport and I approach the gatewe'd feel a disturbance in the Forcea trembling in the air around us,dart senses warily around the inevitable battlefieldlock eyes across the distanceas all else fades into shadow,simultaneous "snap-hiss" of lightsabersmine in cobalt blue,yours in royal violetdash madly toward each otherand leap above civilians in the last stretch,cross blades mid-airI'd tumble into luggageyou'd somersault into strangers,unperturbed, we'd resumeslash, parry, thrust, passata-sotto, spinbeat, riposte, lunge, redoublement, in quartataflèche, croisé, quinteand blades lock as bystanders stand in awehaving never seen Jedi spar except on celluloid"been too long, Azami""yes, it has, Cyph"then hiss-snap as blades retractfall to floor like shooting starskisses collide with more power than Death Starssending shockwaves across the galaxyfrom Endor to KorribanSith Lords shudder on their thronesCylons cower in their chassesVorlons feel the urge to fleeknowing the Jedi have returnedand on a tiny cornerof a tiny worldyou and I find home is shared heartbeatsafter too many moments apart

CFG the slam poet

Fox the Poet

Christopher Fox Grahamis a Montana-born boy raised in Arizona to be a poet, artist, and singer with unending wanderlust. He's fascinated with art and other shiny things, a good story will keep him captivated and silent as he soaks you in.

In truth, he is good at only three things: using language, kissing, and driving.

He has performed for MTV and on The Travel Channel's "Your Travel Guide" episode of Sedona. Aside from winning more than 100 poetry slams, he's published four books of poetry, most recently The Opposite of Camouflage, and won the 2012 Dylan Thomas Award for Excellence in the Written and Spoken Word.

A slam poet since 2001, he currently hosts the bimonthly Sedona Poetry Slam in West Sedona.

For nearly four years, he was the senior Copy Editor of the Sedona Red Rock News, and an arts reporter and a columnist. He wrote a weekly column "Sedona Underground," about the city's art scene. After leaving in May 2008, he was asked to return as Assistant Managing Editor in October 2009. He was promoted to News Editor in April 2012 and in August 2012 was promoted to Managing Editor, overseeing the Sedona Red Rock News,The Camp Verde Journal, Cottonwood Journal Extra, The Scene and The Village View.

He has won numerous personal and editorial newsroom awards from the Arizona Newspapers Association, including three awards for Best Headline.

He was the managing editor of Kudos, a weekly arts and entertainment publication of the Verde Independent. He was also managing editor of The Villager, a weekly news publication in the Village of Oak Creek.

He is one the six coordinators of GumptionFest a kickass, annual, one-day grassroots arts festival held in Sedona, this year in September. More than 100 artists and bands exhibit their work for free to more than 1,200 people.

In 2005, he founded the Sedona Poetry Open Mic, which he hosted biweekly at Java Love Cafe on second and fourth Tuesdays until 2012. A former venue included Random Acts of Coffee, in Sedona, which closed in June 2005. The venue named a drink after him which one can order an various coffeehouses in Sedona. The "Topher": A large soy chai with two (or three) shots of espresso. Serve iced or hot. He was member of the city of Sedona Child and Youth Commission for two years and chairman for another two years before the commission was dissolved in 2008.

He has been unofficially named "The Voice of the Underground," in Sedona for his column "Sedona Underground" that appeared every Friday in The Scene. for more than three years, featuring more than 150 artists.

He won the 2004 NORAZ Poets Grand Slam, the 2005 Arizona All-Star Poetry Slam, and was a member of the 2001, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2010, 2012 and 2013 Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Teams. He was also a National Poetry Slam bout manager in 2003, venue manager in 2011, and Sedona Slammaster in 2012, 2013 and 2014, sponsoring the city's first three Sedona National Poetry Slam Teams.

He believes that all slam poets are Jedis.

He has been thrown out of six movie theaters, 18 bars, a Las Vegas nightclub with his girlfriend, a public pool, two malls, four golf courses, one bowling alley, five dorms, one airport, one pet store, a now-defunct nonprofit poetry organization ... and Canada. Seriously.